The Consequences of Our Actions
by nero749
Summary: Despite the fact that The Great Game has not only left Baker Street a ruin, but has also landed Sherlock in the hospital, the sleuth can't resist a new case. That's at least what it seems to like John, who doesn't realise they're still trapped in The Game
1. Chapter 1

"I am so changeable," Moriarty's voice echoed through the room, reverberating against the tiles, making it sound hollow. "You can't be aloud to continue… You just can't."

The words did not matter. They could have been anything. It was the voice, that voice that seemed to crawl into your head and stay there, moving along the inside of your skull. Any of those things would not have mattered to Sherlock, he would not be intimidated so easily. Except Moriarty was something new. He could not judge his motivations, could not gage his reactions.

And the cold fear that crept up Sherlock's spine was starting to show on his face. His eyes betrayed it. His back was still turned to Moriarty, so he wouldn't see. But John saw. Sherlock looked at John. John's face was almost apologetic, as if this was somehow his fault. It wasn't a reasonable thought.

"I would try to convince you…," Moriarty's voice echoed through the hollow space. "But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock felt the fear reach to top of his spine and curl along his throat, making it hard to breath. And his heart was pounding even harder against his chest. It wasn't a game. It wasn't a puzzle. It wasn't anything new. This was the end.

Sherlock looked at John again. Asking for his permission. It surprised even Sherlock himself that he would do that. Sherlock worked alone, and had assistants. Sherlock didn't need a second opinion, hadn't needed one before. John's eyes locked with Sherlock's. His expression was still fear and incomprehension mingled together, and apparently causing nothing more than for his mouth to hang open. But Sherlock noted that John was still leaning against the stall. He hadn't been able to get up, and that showed Sherlock how deep his friend's fear truly ran.

John nodded. Just once. Just enough to say yes. To say he was willing to let Sherlock do whatever he was planning to defeat Moriarty. Yes, he was willing to be dragged into Sherlock's insanity once more.

Would it still have been yes if John had been able to predict Sherlock's next move? Sherlock's fingers gripped the gun tighter and his arm began to lift it even before he gave Moriarty his reply. "Probably my answer, has crossed yours." Sherlock said while slowly turning to face Moriarty; ending with his gun aimed at Moriarty.

Moriarty still had something resembling a smile, plastered on his face. It was no more a smile than Sherlock was a detective. It was a tear in the flesh of this man's face. Skin pulled to the very edge of his jaw.

Of course the expression on his face didn't change with Sherlock's move. A gun aimed at him was no threat at all and all three men in the room knew that. Sherlock looked at Moriarty, then at the jacket lying on the floor. The jacket Moriarty had strapped to John. The jacket that contained enough explosive to take out a small apartment block.

Sherlock lowered the gun. Moriarty's expression changed. Sherlock was now pointing the gun directly at the jacket. And this was a threat Moriarty felt.

Sherlock was only vaguely aware of John staring at him and then staring at the jacket. Maybe he even only knew because it was what he expected to see, rather than what he saw. Sherlock felt his arm started to feel warm, the way muscles did when you strained them. The gun was heavier than he'd expected, but then he'd never held it for very long before. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline rushing through his system that made him want to end the wait.

There was fear on Moriarty's face now, hidden behind arrogance, but still clear to see. Moriarty stretched his neck, moving his head from one side to another. Another sign that the threat was real to Moriarty now. Because even more than John, Moriarty could guess Sherlock's next move.

Red dots fluttering across a white shirt that seemed blue in the lighting of the pool. Damon was only vaguely aware that one of them was coming from his riffle. He moved his leg uneasily, it was starting to cramp up. He wished the order would come already, but his radio was silent for now.

As soon as Moriarty had reappeared in the room, Damon had known how this would end. But he had seen proof of the cruelty of such men before, so he was no longer surprised it was being dragged out.

Damon wasn't close enough to hear the conversation, but he could hear voices echoing through the room. Moriarty's voice was easily recognisable. As always it ranged from innocently jovial to openly violent. The other voice he heard echoing was deeper and therefore he could hear it more clearly, still the actual words were lost on him.

Damon didn't know their names, he suddenly realised. Damon stared as he saw the man who had spoken, was now pointing his gun at Moriarty again. He felt no fear, dread, not even excitement. Damon knew the man wouldn't shoot.

Damon changed his position. Not his riffle, that remained locked on its target, but he stretched his leg - that was really starting to hurt now - and moved to be able to lean on one knee. When he looked through his visor again, the scene had changed. The change was so minimal that Damon almost didn't notice it. But when he did, it became clear how critical the change had been.

The gun was now pointing at the explosives. Damon had seen the news; he knew how big the explosion would be. He knew he would be killed, within one breath's time. And that's when the adrenaline started to flood his system.

It was only the fear he felt for Moriarty, that made him take so long to realise the obvious solution. His orders had been clear. Do not shoot until ordered to. But Damon realised the man holding the gun down there, next to the pool, could pull the trigger and kill them all, before any of them even had had the time to realise what had happened. And Damon also knew there was something he could do to stop it from happening. All he had to do was pull the trigger himself.

John hardly even felt the sharp edge of the stall he was leaning against, cutting into his back. All he could feel was his heart pounding against his chest in outrage. Seemingly random thoughts crossed his mind. He had been here before. He had felt this al before. Dying was nothing new. But still John felt the same panic, the fear, the sadness, the outrage he had felt before. This was not it, this was not the end, he had too much still to do. He wanted to live.

Please, it was still the only word he could utter when faced with his own immortality.

I don't want to die.

This couldn't be his death. Trapped in a swimming pool. Staring at Sherlock, hoping as he had before, that the extraordinary mind of Sherlock Holmes had thought of a solution. Of a way to spare them. But why was the gun still pointing at the jacket then? Was he going to try and negotiate their way out of here? Why was he still silent then?

If he pulled the trigger now, would I feel it?

Moriarty's smile had been unbearable, but now it was gone John felt even more uneasy. He might just be seeing his own fear reflected in someone else's face, but John still felt it was Moriarty's fear he could see in those dark eyes. And if nothing else had scared him, this did. Despite having come here out of his own free will, knowing Sherlock would bring a gun, despite surrounding himself with the coldest people on earth, and despite having snipers to protect him, Moriarty felt enough fear for it to be visible. And that scared John. Moriarty's fear amplified his own as the hollow space of the pool had amplified Sherlock's words.

Then perhaps mine has already crossed yours, what had it meant? Where these the last words John would hear? He was still staring at Sherlock. What was he going to do? He wasn't going to pull the trigger, or he would've already... surely. Or did he need time to push himself to do it? John didn't look around the pool, but knew anyway that there was no way they were going to survive. The old woman hadn't.

John kept looking at his friend's face. He couldn't read it, he couldn't guess what he would do. He had seen fear in Sherlock's eyes the brief moment their eyes had met. But he had also seen something else. Regret, he would call it. And it scared him. John looked at Sherlock and through him went, what he thought to be his last conscious thought.

Please let me live.

Two men in the room thought it was the start of the explosion. Only Sherlock didn't. Because the horrible sound that echoed through the room, happened simultaneously with the horrible pain spreading through his arm, his chest and eventually it seemed his whole body.

The voice he heard yell at first wasn't John's, it was Moriarty's. Moriarty was screaming at the empty pool, its ceiling, its walls, or so it seemed. But Sherlock couldn't make anything out. The pain was too dominating. It was everywhere and everything. It literally made him sick to his stomach. But that wasn't enough to describe it. But he couldn't describe it, would never be able to put it into words. It tore at him in ways nothing ever had and he truly believed he would've begged for it to stop, cried for it to stop, surrendered, if that had helped.

The end was not as John expected. Because it was nothing more than a sound. No heat, no fire, no pain. This wasn't death.

Only when he saw Sherlock collapse did he realise there was no explosion and there would be none. And still he sat there against the stall. In his mind Sherlock was already dead, despite the fact he could still see him moving. But there was no other explanation possible in his mind. This confrontation would end in death. And so it had to. And Sherlock was on the floor. So Sherlock was dead.

"Who took the shot!" Moriarty's voice bellowed through the open space. He seemed to have forgotten about Sherlock and John. He kept demanding to know who had taken the shot.

John realised he should do something. Take the gun. Shoot Moriarty. But when his mind finally got his body to react, he rushed to Sherlock. Sherlock was lying face down. His face contorted and leaning against the tiles. His breathing was heavy, and the only thing that proved he was still alive, because he was lying perfectly still.

Sherlock's jacket was dark, but John could still see the blood. His training had given John a certain calm when it came to even the most horrific injuries. And this was not the first time he would see a friend die, still his heart wouldn't slow down.

John could see the wound, and his medical training told him Sherlock would live. Still, he felt a desperate need to get him to a hospital right now, as if his life depended on it. The truth was he couldn't take this, not after what had happened today.

Moriarty turned to look at John. Their eyes met briefly before Moriarty lowered his gaze to look at Sherlock. He stood there, judging the situation, John suspected. Then turned and left. No witty comment, no second look at John. John wasn't surprised, he hadn't expected it, but wasn't surprised either. After all, this had always been a game between Moriarty and Sherlock. John was just a prop, the way the old woman and the others had been props. Moriarty would no sooner speak to them, then to the pool itself, or the jacket lying on the floor.

Light. He turned on his side, but it didn't help. Light caused him to wake up. Sherlock had been in hospitals before, so his surroundings didn't surprise him. Nor did the sight of John sitting in the chair next to his bed. Sherlock smirked, but only to hide the fact that he did feel warmed by John's actions. John had shown him so much loyalty from the first day they'd met.

John was staring out the window, or maybe just into space. At any rate, it wasn't until Sherlock had slung his feet out of the bed, that John even realised he'd woken up. He got to his feet immediately. Sherlock saw the relieve on John's face, followed by worry.

"Sherlock, you can't get out of bed!"

"Of course I can, I already have," Sherlock said, while letting himself drop to the floor. It felt cool underneath his feet and he immediately started to wonder where his clothes were.

"You got shot!"

Sherlock let out a aggravated breath. "I am aware of that." He said. And he was. The pain was dulled, but still present.

John let out a deep breath. "You have to get back into the bed."

Sherlock smiled as he thought back to John's earlier remark. "John," he reprehended his friend, "people might talk."

John clenched his jaw and turned his back to Sherlock. "Sherlock," he started slowly, "you got shot, you have to stay in the hospital."

"What I need," Sherlock said slowly, "is more painkillers, clothes and cab fare. Preferably in that order."

John's expression changed. "Is the pain still bad?" he asked. Sherlock presumed John was thinking back to his own injuries. The irony of them having almost the same wound wasn't lost on Sherlock. "It won't be with more painkillers," Sherlock answered simply.

John nodded, but he seemed oddly absent, as if his mind was somewhere else. "Sherlock," he finally said. "We could've died."

Sherlock looked at John who looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock didn't respond, it was irrelevant. They didn't die. The only thing that was important about the incident was Moriarty. Sherlock had no doubt Moriarty got away. Even though his mind had been clouded by pain, he remembered hearing Moriarty leave. John was still looking at Sherlock, though Sherlock couldn't think of what John expected him to say.

John sighed. "Moriarty got away."

Sherlock looked at him. "I was there," he reminded John.

"I mean," John said, impatience seeping into his voice, "the police can't find him. I gave them a description and we have his name."

"I'm not surprised," Sherlock said. The police wasn't something he counted on.

"Lestrade said they even questioned Molly and everyone else here in the hospital, but there was no way to find him."

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock said, smirking.

"You know something," John realised.

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "Remember what the cabby said about Moriarty?"

John stared at Sherlock with the slightly sheepish look Sherlock had grown accustomed to. "No."

"Why, didn't you put it in your blog?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

John scowled at him.

"He said Moriarty was more than a man," Sherlock reminded John.

John frowned. "An organisation then?" John asked.

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock said.

"But how will that help us find him?"

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised at that remark. He took a step forward. "When something's big, it's easier to find," Sherlock said, gesturing with his hands.

"Yes, fine, but I still don't see…"

"An organisation like that must have been noticed," Sherlock interrupted John.

"I already told you the police…"

Sherlock cried out in aggravation. "Not the police, John." He lifted his head to the sky and gestures with his hands. He didn't understand how John couldn't follow him.

"Then who?" John asked, exasperated.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He hated to say this next part. "Mycroft," he answered. Then he noticed something from the corner of his eye. Sherlock turned to the bed swiftly, causing his hospital gown to twirl around him. He was staring at the small cupboard standing next to the hospital bed. On it was a pink get well soon card. It had a kitten on it and it didn't take Sherlock all his talent for deduction to realise whom it was from. Molly Hooper - after all, he was in St. Bart's. "Oh god," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

John had managed to talk Sherlock into bed. As long as he promised to find more painkillers for him and to retrieve his clothes. John sighed. He could hardly pretend to be looking for the clothes for the next seven days, to keep Sherlock in the hospital. Did that man have any idea how lucky he had been. Not only hadn't it been a kill shot, but the bullet had missed everything of importance. Clearly it had been a shot designed to merely stop Sherlock from shooting. He could've been killed, but that didn't seem to hit home at all.

John roamed the halls, it was pretty much deserted in St. Bart's. It suddenly occurred to him Moriarty could've been walking down these very same halls just a week earlier. They still hadn't found out why Moriarty had pretended to be Jim from IT. Was it just part of the game for him? And for Sherlock? Was that why his friend seemed not to realise the gravity of what they had just been through.

John recalled sergeant Donovan's words to him, during his first case with Sherlock. A psychopath, was what she had called Sherlock. Sherlock himself had said he was a sociopath. Did it matter what the exact wording was? The insanity seemed to become more and more clear to John. Sherlock's intelligence made it practically impossible for him to find anything that challenged him. And that made him do the stupidest things to just not be bored.

"Sherlock! Are you all right?" Lestrade asked as he entered the room. Sherlock had been awake for less than an hour, but Lestrade had wasted no time.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said by means of an hello. He ignored the platitude.

Lestrade's brow furrowed as he looked around the hospital room, ending on the hospital bed with Sherlock in it, then raising an eyebrow as he saw the pink card on the cupboard. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, so Sherlock decided to get the ball rolling. "You're here about Moriarty," he said.

"Yes," Lestrade said. "We've interviewed dr. Watson and the staff here, but… we have nothing to go on. I was hoping you might be able to give me some…"

"You were hoping I had seen something they hadn't," Sherlock said.

"Yeah."

"I haven't," Sherlock shook his head.

Lestrade frowned again. "Do you know why he let you live?"

Sherlock was fairly certain Lestrade would normally have used more tact. "No," Sherlock lied.

Lestrade nodded. "I'll let you rest then," he said. He turned to leave the room. "And Sherlock," he called over his shoulder. "Tell me when you go after him again."

Lestrade left the room and Sherlock smiled to himself. Lestrade was learning, he had seen the lie on Sherlock's face. But he couldn't possibly believe Sherlock would tell him when he went after Moriarty again.

Sherlock knew exactly why he and John were still alive. And why the shooter had shot him in a way that he could easily recover from. The shooter had probably feared Moriarty's reprisal if anyone but him was responsible for Sherlock's death. That's why he had gone for the shot that would stop Sherlock from blowing up the building, but would spare Sherlock's life nonetheless.

Moriarty had let Sherlock and John go, because he would do as he promised. His threat had never been against Sherlock's life, after all.

John had left Sherlock at the hospital, now certain he would be staying in the hospital for a while. The cab stopped in front of 221b Baker Street. All the rubble from the 'gas explosion' had been cleared away, and as long as you kept your eyes on street level and turned to 221, you wouldn't see the mess still left behind. They had cleared most of the ruins of the destroyed building, leaving a hollowed out leftover.

When John looked up, he could see the wood had been removed from one of their windows. It took him a while to see that was because it had been replaced with a new window. That was Mycroft's doing, John guessed.

"John, dear, back from the hospital?" Mrs. Hudson asked. What had happened at the pool had been in the newspapers, but it hadn't mentioned Sherlock or John's names. It had been John himself who had told Mrs. Hudson what had happened, well, parts of it.

"Has Sherlock woken up yet?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," John said as he took off his coat and Mrs. Hudson took it from him. "The operation went well."

Mrs. Hudson said something else - something about tea John guessed - but he didn't really hear and went up the stairs instead.

The light in the familiar room was dimmed by the window that was still covered with a wooden plank. Besides that there was nothing to suggest anything had happened. Everything was clean and the mess was organised. That was Mrs. Hudson's doing, John guessed.

John's phone went off. He didn't recognise the number and suddenly he got this sickening feeling in his stomach. He thought back to all the calls that had let to the death of too many people already. John felt the adrenaline rushing through his system again, but his hands were steady when he picked up, even though he expected to hear a desperate voice on the other end, a voice belonging to someone who was being held hostage and John was alone. How could he solve this without Sherlock?

"I need you to go to the police station," a deep voice boomed in John's ear.

"Sherlock?" John asked surprised. John could hear an aggravated sigh on the other end of the line.

"I need you to talk to Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Where are you calling from?" John asked, looking around the room as if he expected Sherlock to suddenly appear.

Another irritated sigh. "The hospital."

"But…"

"Someone took my phone, so I'm using the one here."

"Oh, right, of course," John said, feeling slightly stupid.

"Ask him about the Adair murder."

"What? Why?"

"And ask him if there have been any similar murders recently."

"Sherlock, you're in the hospital, you should…"

"I'll come find you afterwards."

"What? No, you have to…" But Sherlock had already hung up.

John let out a deep breath and for a second seemed to hesitate, before getting up from his chair.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Sherlock in the hospital?" Lestrade asked as he rummaged around his desk.

"For now," John said under his breath.

"So why does he want this case?" Lestrade straightened himself, now holding several files in his hands.

"I really don't know," John said, feeling slightly exasperated. "But do you really want me to tell him he can't have it?" Lestrade pursed his lips, realising Sherlock's help was something he could always use. And judging by the look on his face, John thought this was exactly the kind of case Lestrade wanted Sherlock's help on.

"There have been more murders like the Adair murder, haven't there?" John asked.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Three in the last two days."

"And how are they connected?" John asked, wondering how Sherlock had guessed it.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "We're not certain yet, but the way these four people were killed suggests one killer." John took the files from Lestrade and wedged them under his arm. Lestrade lifted his chin a little, then lowered it again, focussing on John. "I've put agents outside Sherlock's room," he said. "But maybe you should stay with friends for a while, until we find Moriarty," Lestrade said.

John didn't tell Lestrade that he didn't believe Moriarty would ever be caught by the police, instead he nodded.

One of the police officers in the room signalled Lestrade. Lestrade immediately rushed over with such urgency that John decided to follow him, keeping some distance because he still didn't feel entirely comfortable with his role as consulting detective's assistant.

"Another murder?" John asked. Lestrade only nodded.

Following Lestrade into the building, John felt completely out of place, but he was certain that if he didn't investigate and than got back to Sherlock, insults would follow.

The crime scene was one of London's biggest libraries. It was a cold building and even its interior seemed mainly made up out of concrete. It felt wrong to John to call this a library.

They entered, what ironically turned out to be the true crime section of the library, to find the body of a middle-aged man. He had been shot once in the head. John kept his distance while Lestrade talked to the agents already there. Evidently he had told them to get out, because one by one the passed John on their way to the next room. The last officer to leave bumped into John and grunted an apology.

"You have five minutes," Lestrade said before he left as well. John was aware of the fact he was only granted this kind of freedom because of his connection to Sherlock.

Less than a minute had passed when in the corner of his eye, John could see someone walking up to him. It looked to be a young officer. Looked, until he opened his mouth. "So what do you think?" The familiar, deep voice boomed at him.

Completely perplexed, John looked up at the young officer. Who now very clearly was Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" John said startled. "You're supposed to be in the hospital!" Sherlock chuckled a little. "How did you…"

"I heard one of the agents outside my room getting this call." Sherlock interrupted John and passed him on his way to the body. Sherlock lowered himself to study the body more closely.

"And they let you go?"

"I wasn't a prisoner, John," Sherlock said.

"No, but…"

"I simply pretended to be a doctor."

John frowned and then shook his head. "But you were in a hospital gown!" He exclaimed.

Sherlock glanced at his friend and raised an eyebrow. "I found a doctor's coat," he simply stated.

John shook his head, knowing Sherlock enjoyed showing off his intelligence. "And how did you get these clothes?" John gestured at Sherlock's uniform.

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. "There were agents outside of my room."

John sighed and decided not to indulge Sherlock's need for recognition. Fine, he thought to himself. "Why did you want this case?"

Sherlock straightened himself. The look on his face became serious and he clenched his jaw. "Moriarty."

The name was enough to make John feel the same fear he had in the pool. Diluted, but still enough to make his breathing unsteady. "You think he's behind these murders?"

"Consulting criminal, remember?" Sherlock said.

John nodded. "But how do you know?"

"Every murderer has his tell, his signature move."

"But Moriarty doesn't kill."

"His sniper, I mean," Sherlock said in a strained voice. It was only now that John noticed he was trying to keep his damaged arm perfectly still. He wasn't wearing a sling, of course not.

"Sherlock, you really need to give that arm rest, we have to…"

"Get one of these?" Sherlock asked, a sling appearing from his jacket. John moved to help Sherlock put it on. Sherlock studied John's face. "It wouldn't have worked with my disguise," he said simply.

Sherlock shrugged off the coat he'd stolen from one of the agents outside his room. It was only then that John saw that Sherlock wasn't wearing a uniform at all. It had simply been the coat that had given the impression, because the coat had hidden the fact that Sherlock was wearing the same clothes he had at the pool. Including the white shirt that had his blood on it.

Sherlock saw John staring at it, apparently frozen by the sight of the blood and the memories attached to it. "I would've put something else on, but I only had these clothes at the hospital."

John looked up at Sherlock's face. Sherlock seemed untroubled by all of it, but John felt that sick feeling in his stomach again. Finally the spell broke and he helped Sherlock put the sling on.

"You have the files?" he asked. John nodded. "Good, then we're done here," Sherlock said and with long strides he left the room. As usual, John followed him.

Even before he heard her voice, Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson would come rushing to the door the second she heard them come in. "Sherlock, my dear!" she said as she rushed towards him and hugged him. Showing her more kindness than he would most others, he didn't tell her to get the hell away from him because his arm was killing him and he even sort of hugged her back with one arm as best he could.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said jovially. "Am perfectly fine, you don't need to worry." He smiled and though it wasn't genuine, there were no resentful feelings behind it either.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson said as she looked at the injured arm. "Oh! I'll make you some soup, I think I still have some left from last night." She didn't wait around long enough to hear Sherlock object. Instead she rushed towards her small kitchen at the back of the house.

Sherlock exchanged a knowing look with John and then briskly ascended the stairs, two steps at a time. The gloominess of the room didn't even register to Sherlock. He did note that his brother had apparently already gotten one of the windows replaced, the other would undoubtedly follow soon. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the knowledge that he was accepting help from Mycroft. And he would have to again. Soon.

John let himself slump into his favourite chair. Letting the files rest in his lap. Sherlock didn't sit however. He crossed the room to stare out of the one window that had been repaired already. He looked up and down the street. Noting several things, but nothing of importance. Then he fixed his look on the building across the street, the building Moriarty had blown up. The building had been cleaned out and you could now see that the actual floors were still intact, though Sherlock couldn't make out, from this distance, whether they were still sound.

Sherlock felt John's eyes on him, but he knew the good old doctor would never guess what Sherlock was looking for. He would simply assume Sherlock was staring into space.

Sherlock turned on the ball of his foot. "Data," he demanded.

John's face betrayed his resentment at being spoken to like this, but he obliged Sherlock anyway.

"In all the four, well, presumably five murders the same weapon was used, that's why they assume it's connected."

Sherlock let out a long breath. "Yes, and…"

John looked startled. "Oh er, and…" He looked slightly sheepish as he tried to think of what to say next.

"They were all male, wealthy, but with no clear source of income." Sherlock said in his usual rattling manner. Sherlock suppressed a smile as he saw John shift in his seat, preparing to take the flood of words that was about to crash against him. He'd sit there eagerly taking it all in and doing his best to keep up.

"We can't connect all of them to one person or one place, but they are all linked by each other…"

Bravely John interjected. "Yes, Adair knew Morrison from university, Morrison knew Jameson from an old job, Jameson's sister was married to Pryce's brother and…"

"And our unfortunate reader once lived in the same building as Adair."

"How do you even know that?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled and shifted his weight. "The article about Adair's murder also said he had just sold own of his most highly valued building's to Adam Pryce, who lived in the building himself. Adair bought the building when he himself was living there, so it's safe to assume they once lived there simultaneously."

John nodded. "And how is Moriarty involved?"

Sherlock frowned. "We have to know why they were murdered first."

"You already have a theory, I assume?"

"Yes, but I need more data." He briskly walked over to John and snatched the files from his lap. Sherlock said down on the edge of the chair opposite John's and started shifting through the files at such speed no one would've believed he was taken even a single word in. It wasn't long before Sherlock put the files down and let himself lean back in his chair. Pressing his fingertips together and staring at a fixed point on the wall.

John was just waiting and Sherlock had to suppress a smile again. Loyal doctor Watson, he thought to himself. And again Moriarty's threat echoed through his mind. Sherlock glanced at John, then looked at the window from the corner of his eyes. He knew Baker Street wasn't safe anymore.

Sherlock suddenly got out of his chair and started to wrestle with his coat, trying to put it on well enough to at least protect him from the cold. John turned in his seat and then got up to help Sherlock. "Have you figured it out?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's not important."

"Not important?" John stared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, there are five people dead!"

"Six actually."

John's expression changed. "Six?"

"Yes, Pryce's brother is dead as well."

John's brow furrowed. "Of an heart attack, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Then how is that related?"

A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face. "John, that is the most vital part of this case."

John sighed. "All right, tell me then."

"When Pryce's brother died, he left his wife, Jameson's sister, quite a bit of money and a beautiful apartment building in central London."

"All right…" John said to let Sherlock know he was still following.

"Just a few months after Pryce's brother's death, all five men started to spend a lot of money that couldn't be traced to anything. The only one with an inheritance was the widow, but she put most of it away so that doesn't explain it. Then how do five men become wealthy very quickly. There are a limited amount of options and we can narrow it even further when we realise both Adair and Morrison were gifted mathicians and Pryce was once arrested for illegal gambling. Then there's the beautiful apartment building that has remained empty for all these years despite its central London location. Jameson used to be a stockbroker, before suddenly 'retiring' at age 38. Certainly he had a lot of connections to bored men with disposable income. Then taking in account their growing wealth it's easy to see what connects all five men to each other."

John nodded and Sherlock knew this would soon be followed by a familiar question.

"What?" John asked.

"Just think John," Sherlock replied. His expression became eager, as if he'd been training John for this moment and was now anticipating the results with dread and pride at the same time.

"You think they were gamblers?"

"What? No." Sherlock frowned. "If they had been gamblers their wealth would most probably not have grown. I think they organised illegal gambling, taking fees for every tournament they arranged."

"And that's why that building remained empty!" John said, obviously pleased with himself for making the connection.

"But what does Moriarty have to do with any of it?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "I think one of them, possibly all of them knew Moriarty, I mean knew enough about him to bring the police to the doorstep of his operation. I believe Moriarty killed all of them to protect himself."

"Because of what happened at the pool?"

"Yes. He has revealed himself to the police now, so he has to make sure there's nothing that can lead to him and nothing that could have him convicted."

John nodded and then realisation spread across his face. "You think Moriarty helped cover up the murder of Pryce's brother. It was murder, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "And judging by the various hospital admissions of his wife, he probably wasn't completely undeserving of it."

John looked at Sherlock, trying to gage what he was thinking. "Then… where are we going now?"

"I am going to see Lestrade, and you are going to visit Mycroft."

"Your brother? Why am I going to see your brother?"

"He will know," Sherlock simply said as he pushed John out in front of him, using his good arm.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock leaned back into his chair. Lestrade had listened and taken orders as he always did. Sherlock knew he resented it, but also that Lestrade knew how much he needed Sherlock's help. Sherlock had just one last thing to set up before it became dark and he could proceed with his plan.

Sherlock stared at the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was just a temporary replacement for the lamp the explosion had destroyed. But it would give enough light for Sherlock's plan to succeed.

He'd already instructed Mrs. Hudson that he and John wanted to be left alone during the evening, no matter what. The wink Mrs. Hudson had then given Sherlock, told him exactly what she thought he had meant by that, but he didn't care.

Without warning, Sherlock jumped up from the chair and closed the blinds over the one window they had. He had to get things in place before it became too dark outside.

The streetlamps had been turned out and as Sherlock crossed the street, he glanced back over his shoulder to look up at the lit window of 221b. The street was deserted and Sherlock was pleased to see it so.

They'd placed a metal fence around the destroyed building across 221b, but it didn't take much effort for Sherlock to drag it aside and squeeze through. The floor was completely cleared of debris, so that wouldn't be a problem. Sherlock couldn't risk a flashlight, so he would have to find his way in the dark. Because the staircase had been at the back of the building, furthest away from the explosion, it was still completely intact. Another stroke of luck. Then, just as Sherlock moved to the stairs, he heard a familiar soft voice behind him. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock let out a long aggravated breath. This was one case he didn't want to take John with him. He turned around and could only see John's silhouette painted out against the lit street. "John, I told you I needed you to go see Mycroft."

"I did," John said.

"Then why are you back?"

"I know when I'm being kept busy," John hissed.

You really don't, Sherlock thought to himself.

"What are you doing? Why didn't you want me here?"

Sherlock sighed. "Very well, come along then." He went up the stairs.

In the dark, the second floor wouldn't have looked as a ruin if it hadn't been for the small fact of the front of the building missing. It gave the room a strange post-apocalyptic look. Sherlock looked around him and choose the darkest spot in the room the sit down.

John went to sit next to him and as they talked neither of them could see the other person's face. "So why are we here?"

"We're waiting," Sherlock said.

"Ah yes, of course," John said sarcastically. The cold was making him agitated, Sherlock noted. "And who are we waiting for?"

"The murderer."

"Really, and when might we be expecting him?"

"I'm fairly sure he'll show tonight."

"Fairly? Does that mean we could be waiting here for nothing?" John asked annoyed.

"You're welcome to go back to Mycroft," Sherlock replied.

John scoffed. Then his voice changed. "Sherlock, please tell me what's going on."

Sherlock turned to look at John's face, but there was only darkness. Finally he said, "fine, follow me."

Crawling on all fours, Sherlock moved to the front of the room, towards where the floor ended in a ragged edge, as if some kind of giant animal had chewed the rest of it away. John followed Sherlock's example and crawled to the edge as well.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked.

John gazed out at the empty space before him and that was all he could see. Empty space and one hell of a fall down. He felt slightly dizzy. "Nothing," he said. Then he looked again. "No, wait… There, over there by that fence, is that… a police officer?"

Sherlock turned his face to John and was genuinely impressed. "Very good," he said. Though part of him was worried, because if John could tell that was a police officer, the murderer might be able to tell as well. "But I mean directly in front of you."

John looked out into the night again and then gasped. Sherlock smirked, knowing John had finally seen it.

"There's someone in our apartment!" John said.

"No there's not," Sherlock replied.

"I can see him, he's…" John eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "How do you mean there's not?"

"Trust me, there's not, but for the time being it needs to look like there is." Sherlock turned around and started crawling back to the corner they were sitting in earlier. Reluctantly John followed.

John stretched his legs besides Sherlock. Sherlock was still sitting perfectly still, as if he had become a statue in the meanwhile. "You still haven't explained," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Well have another look then," he said.

John narrowed his eyes, but the gesture was lost in the dark. Slowly he moved towards the edge again and once he reached it, he gasped again. "There are two now!" He exclaimed.

"No," Sherlock said simply.

John took a deep breath and returned to the corner. "Are you going to explain?"

"Can you not see?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed, "no."

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they both heard someone coming up the stairs. It was a tall man carrying a riffle slung across his back. Anticipating John's next move, Sherlock quickly clasped a hand over John's mouth.

They sat in silence, unnoticed by the new arrival. The man started to set up his equipment. It was very clear he was a sniper and John knew this had to be the murderer and therefore he had to work for Moriarty. It took effort not to do anything as John felt his muscles tense with the need to act.

The sniper lay down on his stomach, leaning on his elbows to get his eye levelled with his visor. He adjusted the riffle several times. And then, almost without sound, took his shot. John heard glass shattering in the distance, just before Sherlock lunged forward and threw himself on the sniper.

Because of his obvious limitation, Sherlock was soon on the losing side. The sniper pinned him to the floor, using his knees, with one of them pressing down on Sherlock's wounded shoulder. Sherlock let out a sound of pain. The sniper wrapped his hands around Sherlock's throat and started choking him, with his one free hand Sherlock desperately clawed at the sniper's hands. John took his gun from his pocket and rushed forward. Quickly he knocked the sniper unconscious with the butt of the gun.

Sherlock rolled to his left side, lying on his good arm, trying to breath. His eyes seemed to have been effected by the strangulation as well and he tried to get them to focus again. Sherlock was vaguely aware of John looming over him, trying to gage the state Sherlock was in, and he thought he heard John say something, but he didn't respond.

After a while Sherlock finally raised himself on his left arm - his good arm. Still gasping for air, still waiting for his lungs to open up again he thought, good old doctor Watson.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said as he left the building. It was only now that John noticed Lestrade rushing towards them from across the street. So he really had seen a police officer.

"Inside," Sherlock indicated the deserted building with a nod of the head. Lestrade's gaze moved between Sherlock and John. Then Lestrade yelled for the other officers to follow him and went inside.

Sherlock moved to 221b, rushing up the stairs, eager to see who the sniper had shot. As he entered the living room, he saw the sniper's shot had put a whole in the one repaired window they'd had. He grinned at that. When he turned around, Sherlock noticed John was looking at something else. The two dummies seated in the chairs. The dummies that had cast the shadows John had seen before, the shadows that had made him believe someone had broken into the apartment.

Sherlock smirked, feeling pride despite the situation. But the smirk soon disappeared as his eye fell on which of the two dummies the sniper had decided to shoot.

"But they moved! And there was just the one before!" John looked at Sherlock.

"I asked Mycroft for someone to provide me with the dummies and to move them a few times during the evening, to create the illusion they were alive."

John stared at the dummies and then at the bullet hole the sniper's riffle had left in the wall. Another bullet hole, he thought as he glanced at the still present smiley face on one of the side walls. "Then why did you send me to Mycroft?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, nor did he tell John why he knew his brother would immediately understand why Sherlock had send John over there. It was the same reason why Sherlock was staring at the dummy that got shot. Clean through the forehead. A cold, impersonal kill shot, right through the head of the dummy that was dressed up as John.

In reality Sherlock had not expected anything else. This was what Moriarty's threat had been about, after all. He wouldn't kill Sherlock, not yet. Sherlock looked at John from the corner of his eye. John was still waiting for an answer. But Sherlock remained quiet. He would ask Mycroft for his help again, soon. There seemed to be no other solution. Because could the world's only consulting detective ever protect John from Moriarty, who was more than a man. An organisation, a concept, the fear his employees felt for him and what drove them to absolute obedience. Sherlock knew the answer was no. He would fail. John was still looking at Sherlock, but Sherlock's eyes focused on the dummy again instead. The faint smile on his pale head, the dead eyes and the bullet hole in its forehead. A kill shot.


End file.
